Snapshots
by Atalan
Summary: A glimpse of the summer following GoF. Short, slash, Sirius/Remus.


**Snapshots  
**  
  
Imagine, if you will, a broken window, or perhaps a shattered mirror. Fragments glitter under the light of a cold moon. Some people say that if you break a mirror, each of the pieces holds a shard of the whole image. Some people say that each shard is a moment in time.  
  
Maybe they're right.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
He opens the door, fighting against the wind to keep it from banging into the wall. He looks down at the black dog on the doorstep.  
  
"Did you do this on purpose?" he asks, having to shout above the gale, but he is smiling and steps aside for the dog to come in.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
The dark-haired man turns back from his scrutiny of the wall, face closed and a touch resigned.  
  
"I will understand, if you don't want me here."  
  
The other sighs, shaking his head gently.  
  
"That wasn't what I meant. I just..."  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
Something appetising bubbles in a pot on the stove; the brown-haired man looks up as his friend enters the kitchen, drier now and wearing clothes slightly too long for him. Their eyes meet, a silent understanding is reached, and the dark-haired man throws himself into a chair.  
  
"Very domestic, Remus," he comments, glancing sideways with a half-smile.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
"You're sure Harry is alright with his relatives?"  
  
"I don't know." He stirs a scrap of bread around a plate of stew, brow furrowed in concern and weariness. "I can only trust Dumbledore."  
  
A heartbeat; the other lays a hand, briefly, on his.  
  
"You should sleep, Sirius. You look exhausted."  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
The kitchen is dimmer, lit by a solitary candle. Its sole occupant is washing up slowly, by hand, his wand lying on the counter unused. He places the last plate on the rack and walks noiselessly into the other room.  
  
He takes a blanket from a small cupboard and lays it over the sleeping man on the sofa with a wry tenderness born of long friendship. The other does not stir, even to murmur thanks, and his friend leaves as silently as he had entered.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
The wan daylight of early morning; the dark-haired man stands by the kitchen window, looking out. He looks like someone who has no desire to go back to sleep, despite the exhaustion etched into his face.  
  
He picks up the other man's discarded wand and uses it to set the kettle boiling.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
"I know you've always been a morning person," he complains as he wanders sleepily into the kitchen, "but _you_ know that I _never_ have. Couldn't you have waited before you set that thing off?"  
  
The other doesn't smile, even at the kettle's over-enthusiastic whistling. His friend realises he has misjudged, and takes a cautious step closer. "Are you alright?" he asks, quietly.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
"Every night?"  
  
"No. Depends how tired I am. Usually bad the first few nights in a strange place, anyway." A snort. "Pretty much everywhere's been a strange place the last year or so."  
  
"You'll be here for a while. You'll have time to settle in, and tonight you'll have a bed. My Transfiguration may be rusty, but I can manage that at least."  
  
"... thank you, Remus..."  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
"Are you sure you don't want a hand with that?"  
  
"No! It's... it's _nearly_ a bed now."  
  
"It's covered in _baby ducks_, Remus."  
  
"I was trying for a feather pillow."  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
The dark-haired man is chopping something on a kitchen board. Every so often he glances sideways at his companion, with a mixture of pride that he's actually helping, and amusement at his friend's dignified sulk.  
  
They don't speak. There is a radio playing softly, but they're not really listening. One of those moments where they don't need to talk - they're too used to each other, even after all this time. It's the little things that come back. Like knowing when to step aside, just as the other turns around and reaches for something. Like handing over a needed utensil before they have to ask. Like smiling sometimes when they catch each other's eye.  
  
Little things.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
"Why do you cut yourself off like this? There's not another soul for miles."  
  
"It's safer. I can't afford... I can't risk that I might..."  
  
"I thought - you said there was a potion...?"  
  
"I don't have the skill to make it. Not many do, and most would refuse me."  
  
"You've been living here for seven years."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Always alone?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
They sit on the sofa, watching the flames of an open fire. The brown-haired man asks, "Are you happy with the bed?"  
  
His friend turns his head, distracted from contemplating the dance of fire and shadow, and smiles. "I would've been happy with the couch again. The bed is fine, so you can stop worrying."  
  
"Transfiguration never was my strong point," the other mutters, looking away in embarrassment.  
  
His friend sighs, and surprises him by leaning across the distance between them and grabbing his shoulder briefly. He is smiling still - and it has been so rare to see him smile in these last two years.  
  
"You worry about the strangest things."  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
He walks back across the high moor, enjoying the wind in his hair. The dog running at his side darts back and forth excitedly, with an enthusiasm the man shows less often than he used.  
  
They cannot converse, but they don't need to. They seldom needed to; the moments in the past that both of them treasure were largely overlaid by silence.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
This silence is uncomfortable, however. The brown-haired one is looking away. The other sits tensely on the edge of the sofa, watching him. Candlelight makes the shadows softer, hides lines on young faces, hides defeat in broken eyes.  
  
Then he looks up, and smiles, a miracle never hoped for. "I don't know," he answers honestly. "But I... would like to try."  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
The morning is clear, sunlight like falling water on the table. He is not smiling, but he looks happy; his dark-haired friend appears quietly in the doorway and watches him for a moment. He crosses the room and lays a hand on the other's shoulder. When the taller man looks around, he kisses him briefly but hard, and pulls back with a grin.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
"You're sure?"  
  
The dark-haired man nods, still pacing the room in agitation. His friend watches from his seat, knowing better than to try to stop him.  
  
"And what are we to do?"  
  
"Dumbledore said to stay here. He'll let us know..."  
  
He groans in exasperation, combing fingers through (now clean and cut) hair that is nonetheless wildly disordered. He throws himself down on the sofa, leaning back against his friend, who simply moves to accommodate him.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
It is dark, and the half-moon creeps in through bedroom curtains not quite shut. The dark-haired man is awake, watching the window with distant eyes. The other sleeps quietly, draped easily over his chest with arms possessively around him. His hand sometimes moves through the brown hair, occasionally touching the streaks of grey as if to ease their colour back.  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
The silence is awkward, they do not quite catch each other's eyes across the table.  
  
"I have to go today."  
  
The other nods, staring at the wooden surface. He seems to be fighting his own thoughts. Then he sighs gently and looks up, tension going out of him.  
  
"I'll come with you."  
  
His friend turns to look at him, startled.  
  
"But you--"  
  
"-- cannot hide here forever. You were right. And so was Dumbledore."  
  
He stands up, and can't miss the beginnings of real happiness in the other's eyes. Any wavering doubts vanish.  
  
"It won't take me long to pack."  
  
  
_(flicker)  
_  
He opens the door, fighting against the wind to keep it from banging into the wall. He looks down at the black dog on the doorstep.  
  
"Did you do this on purpose?" he asks, and the dog seems to laugh at him as they battle their way out into the storm.  
  
  
  
  
A/N: An experimental style, which I might use again sometime... trying to tell a story using only fragments. I'm interested in how well you think it works.  



End file.
